


To Taste Her Honey Sin

by afterandalasia



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Bondage, Community: disney_kink, Dark, F/M, Orgasm Denial, POV Claude Frollo, Rape, Religious Conflict, Sexual Repression, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6493696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Esmeralda finally in his grasp, Frollo hates and desires her in equal measure as he tries to understand this power that she seems to have over his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Taste Her Honey Sin

**Author's Note:**

> From the [anon prompt](http://disney-kink.livejournal.com/361.html?thread=103017#t103017) at Disney Kink - I chose the Esmeralda/Frollo option.
> 
> Canon-typical racism from Frollo, and canon-level religious guilt/resentment of his own sexuality. Basically, warning: Frollo.
> 
> This is an older fic which I'm backdating. At the time, I was mixing up book and movie versions of HOND, and I wrote Frollo as a priest of some sort rather than just a judge.

"Blasphemer."  
  
The whip strikes her bare skin, leaving a raw, pink line behind. She whimpers, head bowed, sweat glistening on her shoulders in the candlelight, and the sight of it only makes him harder beneath his robes.  
  
"Heretic."  
  
He keeps his voice low, though not soft; fierce and metallic as he lays her names before her. Her hands tighten to fists where he has bound them with his stole, gold embroidery glinting against her brown skin. Again he raises the whip, again lowers it, and though she flinches sharply and grunts in pain she does not scream through the maniple around her mouth and fight against the ties in the way that she did before. Perhaps now the evil is being driven from her, finally, and that is why she does not fight him.  
  
"Whore."  
  
Another strike, then another. Red lines criss-cross her back, some of them beading with blood like some mocking Eucharist, marring what had been clear, flawless skin. Only right that a devil should wear her sin on her flesh. She pants and gasps at each blow, through the gag he put on to stop her screams from echoing in the great cathedral, sweat sticking her hair to her face around those green eyes, those ripe lips, the beautiful mask that hid such a sinful mind.  
  
" _Gypsy_."  
  
Finally his arm fulls still, and he is breathing hard as well, and tells himself that it is with the exertion of wielding the whip. He drops it to the stone floor, where it clatters, and walks slowly round to where he can see the gypsy's face. Her eyes are half-closed at first, but when she realises he is there her head rises, her eyes glitter dangerously, and she pulls against the bonds that keep her arms wide outstretched, exposing her utterly to him in her nakedness.  
  
He runs his hand across her jaw, even as she tries to pull her face away, his nails leaving marks on her neck and on the soft skin beneath her ear. Leaning in closer, smelling her sweetness beneath the salt of her sweat, and when she whips her head to throw him aside he strikes her, backhanded, across her face so that she slumps slightly in her restraints again.  
  
His hand steals beneath his alb as he looks at her, her ripe body, brown and rounded with dark nipples on high breasts and rounded hips, firm thighs, dark curls between them. Between the buttons of his cassock, down against his skin, sliding down to brush against the mortal focus of his own desire, the curse that she had laid upon him. Curling his fingers around himself, he stands for a moment longer there, barely even moving his hand, then a bolt of anger flashes through him again and he pulls his hand away, clenches it into a fist and looks upon it as though it has betrayed him.

"How did you do it, devil? How did you cast your magic?"  
  
He can hear the hoarseness in his own voice as he steps in close to her, one hand wrapping around her shoulders to pin her to his chest, one hand slipping down between her thighs. Oh, but she is wet, so hot and wet beneath his fingers as he spreads her lips slowly, running just the tips of his fingers over her. Then he finds some more sensitive point, because she tries to jerk her hips away with a sound that might have been a scream before she became hoarse, but he tightens his hold on her and reaches for it again. Slow circles at first, then increasing the pressure, until there are tears appearing in her eyes and her hips buck as she tries both to pull away from him and push against him at the same time.  
  
She groans when he draws his hand away, just too soon, when she is trembling but not there. From here he can smell her hair, and he buries his face in it, her hip pressed against his groin.  
  
"Is this what you wanted, gypsy?"  
  
As the shaking stops he reaches for her again, fingers finding that same throbbing, tender spot, rubbing it torturously slowly until she gasps, no longer pulling away, and again he stops again at the last minute. It is beautiful, the way that she gleams in the candlelight, the bright warm orange candelight and the cold of the moonlight through the windows playing together over her skin. Her breasts sway as she pulls against the ties on her wrists, though it is merely automatic now, with no fight remaining. The tip of his tongue darts out to taste the musk and sweat on her skin, and he tilts to grind against her hip as his fingers dip to her a third time.  
  
This time she is panting, shaking her head, whimpering into thick velvet as he draws his hand away again. He cannot help but lift his fingers to his mouth, to taste her honey sin, the salt tingling on his tongue. And after that it barely takes a touch for her to climax, crying out hoarse and muffled, tears and sweat running down her face and mingling together, and he forces his fingers inside of her to feel the clenching of her innermost muscles and the swollen heat in the way that she wraps around him. And as the fire takes hold of him he knows that this is right, that this is the hellfire made for her burning punishment, and that here in the shadows of Notre Dame it is nothing less than his duty, nothing less than his right, to inflict it upon her.


End file.
